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“Harper–”
I pull away from him, and quickly sweep a curl out of my eyes.
“This is embarrassing, I know it is. She fucked me over before and then I let her fuck me over again. Maybe you should go. Pity will only make me feel worse.”
He closes the space I’d put between us, pulling me roughly against his body as he locks his eyes in with mine.
“I already told you, Harper – they don’t deserve you. You gave her a chance and she blew it. But I’m not even mad about it anymore. All that she’s done is free up your Saturday night forme.”
I feel his large palm as it slowly slides down my lower back and then, when he’s fully cupping my behind, he waits a beat before squeezing my ass. A small gasp leaves my throat and my eyelashes flutter as I look up at him.
“You don’t mind that I blew you off on our date night?” I ask.
His hand grips a little harder and he presses his torso firmly against mine. “I’m not angry, baby. It all worked out, anyway.”
“Do you, uh, do you wanna eat?” I ask.
He glances warily over to the oven, probably thinking about words likefood poisoninganduncooked chicken, but after a moment he nods his head and says, “I could eat.”
Mitch lifts the trays out of the oven and I serve up the food on the counter, so as to not scorch the top of my shiny new table. He watches my knife-wielding hand with a steady gaze as I carve the chicken, and I place three pieces on both of our plates. I look up at him and I point the knife at a leg, silently asking if he wants more. He slides his eyes over to mine and nods.
Then I point at the other leg.
He nods again.
By the time that Mitch is carrying our plates over to the table he basically has a whole chicken on his plate, plus mashed potatoes and an assortment of vegetables that were at one point caramelised but have since seen the depths of Mordor.
He waits for me to sit and then he pulls out a chair of his own, dropping down into it with his legs spread wide. I swallow hard and thank God that I put the glasses and a bottle of champagne on the table. It’s been out of the fridge for so long that it’s body is sweating. Which is relatable.
Mitch sees the bottle and raises an eyebrow at me. He’s thinking about my “self medicating” incident and my subsequent behaviour.
I don’t even blame the champagne for that – that was all me.
“Could you open it for me?” I ask him, scooching a little closer to the table and watching his eyes drop to my chest. Watching me bounce. He gives me a curt absentminded nod, his gaze unabashedly preoccupied, and he pulls the bottle into his lap, pointing the head away from me, over to the corner to my left. His left hand is gripping the base of the body and his right is clenched tight over the head, his arm lifted slightly so that he can wrench it, fast and clean.
I feel like I’m watching champagne porn. With a swift tug of his wrist he yanks the cork free, releasing a quick low grunt and then reaching for a glass to fill the initial overspill into.
He fills it so that the foam is just below the rim and he passes it over to me before setting the bottle back on the table.
“Thank you. Don’t you want any?” I ask, braving a tiny sip, to relieve myself of the cloying heat he seems to be permanently putting me into.
He shakes his head, his fists gripping his cutlery but still waiting for me to take the first bite. “Not really my thing.”
“I have other things,” I say.
His eyes dip to my lap and he licks his lips. His hands tighten around his knife and fork as if to sayI bet you do.
“In the fridge,” I clarify, warmth staining my cheeks. “I bought you something, in case you were to come over.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise and he gestures to the fridge, silently asking permission to get up and check. I nod and take my first mouthful of chicken, which is not pink, thank God. He watches me chew for a moment and then he pulls himself away from the table, heaving himself up and over to the fridge.
When he sees what’s inside I see his tan cheekbone tick up in amusement.
“You really got my number, baby,” he says with a half-smile as he tears at the cardboard that’s joining the six bottles together, and pulls out a beer for himself. He uses his thumb to push off the lid, a fasthissleaving the neck, and then he tips the bottle back, taking a savouring pull. I forget about my food as I watch his Adam’s apple roll.
When he rejoins me at the table my food is almost as untouched as his.
“You don’t have to eat all of it,” I say as he raises his cutlery, poised to tuck in.
